A Fistful of Metroids
by Smileyfax
Summary: Samus is a bounty hunter, Ridley is a dragon...in the old west.


It was a slow night in Kraid's Saloon.

In one corner, a red dragon idly plucked out a tune on his acoustic guitar. A poker game was being played silently in the middle, men throwing down cards and pushing their chips forward with nary a word. On the balcony above, cheaply-dressed whores looked down on it all, waiting for some john to come in and pay them a silver dollar for their services. A lone drunk, an old man, sat at the bar, nursing a drink

The silence of the evening was broken by the clip-clop, clip-clop of a solitary horse. Its pace slowed from a dead-run to a trot as it neared the saloon, then it stopped altogether.

A moment later, purposeful boot-strides took up the mantle of suspenseful sound effects. Every step was accompanied by a *ching* -- the owner of the boots had spurs as well.

The stranger pushed the double-doors of the saloon open, walked up to the bar, and took a seat. "Whiskey," the stranger -- a woman -- ordered. As the bartender got her shot glass ready, she took out a cigar and lit it.

Everybody else in the saloon (save the guitar player, who continued plucking out a song) had stopped what they were doing to gawk at the stranger. She had a wide-brimmed hat with an eagle feather tucked into it, one that covered up her eyes when she walked in. It did nothing to cover up her hair, though -- long and golden, like the mid-day desert sands. She wore a trenchcoat with numerous pockets -- though since she had it open when she walked in, everyone who cared to look could see the two six-shooters she had at her hips. And strapped to her back on the coat's outside was a bolt-action rifle. The woman was loaded for bear, and intended everybody to know that.

The bartender set the shot glass in front of the stranger, who downed it in a second. Wordlessly, she slapped another silver dollar onto the bar. The bartender refilled the shot glass, and its contents vanished down the stranger's gullet just as quickly. A third silver dollar did not follow, so the bartender returned to cleaning glasses.

"What brings you to town, stranger?" the old drunk next to her wheezed.

"Business," she replied.

"What sorta business a woman got, 'cept on her back?" heckled one of the men at the poker table. His friends began laughing, until a knife buried itself in the center of the table, quivering a bit as it steadied itself. The stranger stood up, pulled the knife free, and returned it to its sheath inside her trenchcoat.

She nudged her hat up, just high enough to reveal her blue eyes to the saloon for the first time, and stared directly at the heckler. "Bounty huntin'," she answered him. She returned to her seat at the bar.

"Who're you looking for?" the drunk asked her.

The hunter was silent for a moment. Then: "The snake who robbed five banks in the past three months alone. Goes by the name of Ridley."

The guitar stopped playing. "Hello, Aran," the dragon sneered.

The men at the poker table, realizing they were between the two, cleared out of the way (making sure to scoop up their scrip first).

The hunter -- Aran -- considered her half-finished cigar, then handed it over to the old drunk. She stood and faced Ridley.

"Ridley, you're wanted in the territory of Arizona for $5,000 -- alive, or dead. What's your pleasure?"

The dragon smirked. "We both know you're all talk, Aran. There isn't a weapon less than a cannon that can scratch my hide."

"Have it your way," Aran shrugged, and drew, firing off all twelve rounds in the space of two seconds.

Ridley looked down at his body in amazement. Blood! He had actually been shot! He snarled and roared in rage, bellowing a ball of fire out at the hunter.

Aran's eyes widened, and she stopped in the middle of reloading to roll out of the way of the flame. The fireball struck behind the bar, shattering a number of bottles and igniting the building. The bartender, the old man, and the whores from upstairs all fled outside.

Aran came out of the roll standing up, with one six-shooter fully loaded again. She fired it at Ridley, but this time he dodged, getting hit only four times out of six.

Deciding that getting the hell out of town was the better part of valor, Ridley leapt up and smashed through the ceiling of the saloon, flying off into the night sky.

The hunter looked at the hole in the ceiling, then back to where Ridley had been sitting. The guitar lay there, unmolested. She picked it up and casually walked out of the saloon, igonring the spreading flames.

Outside, only the bartender waited for her, looking pained as the flames appeared to have no sign of slowing down. "Mr. Kraid is not going to like this," he said unhappily.

Aran approached him. "Where's the nearest sawbones?"

"What?" the bartender asked, too distracted by his impending unemployment.

"Where is the closest doctor?"

"Oh. Uh...Brinstar City, about twenty miles to the north."

"Thanks." She secured the guitar to the saddle of her horse and mounted it.

"You took his guitar?" the bartender asked, befuddled.

"The guitar's mine," she explained. "The bastard stole it last time we tangled." She kicked her horse into action, galloping north at top speed. 


End file.
